An ocean of jewels
Folks, next week – on 14 Feb – I want to take a look at some of YOUR work. I’ll pick out my tipple-top favourites for praise and commentary, but I’ll get to as much as I can in the comments as well.
To participate, please:
- FInd a chunk of work that especially pleases you
- Upload a maximum of 250 words via the comments below this post
- Give us a book title and a sentence or so to understand the characters / scene you’re writing about.
- And also, please, feel free to comment (truthfully but constructively) on any work uploaded by others.
You’ve got all week to do this.
On 14 Feb, I’ll fish through the work you’ve uploaded and pick out a few bits for my email that afternoon. I’ll also add comments, where I can, to the thread below.
That’s it from me. Any questions? No. So hop to it. Your finest work please. I look forward to seeing it.
Title: The Life and Death of Eddie Carnage
An unpublished first novel. Relatively close to the first draft of a work of literary fiction focussing on the life and loves of a very flawed individual who realises his errors too late. This scene is from near to the end.
He talks to her now across continents as if they had never been apart. I love you and I came to this place we said we would one day come to. Not Ana Bahibik, but “I love you”. This place we planned to visit together. You promised you would come. No planning you said. Not spontaneous, you said. We would just wake up one morning and go. We would just venture out into the desolation and the foreignness of it all without a plan. Do you remember? But not like this. Not alone. Together.
They would have sat silently on the ridge, sucking in the hot air and then, side by side and supine, they would take in the enormity of the azure above. In some minutes, when the silence and the desolation had emptied their minds of the anxiousness of being alone with each other, Leach will reach over and stroke her face, tracing the outline of her lips with the fingertips of a still childish hand. In each of the corners and on the philtrum and then up and over her nose and around her temples.
He would lie there in the blistering desert light staring at the intricacy of her ear, the fine hairs there at the nape of her neck where the sand was collecting and pouring beneath her gingham shirt. That small freckle on her cheek that was reddening with the sun. But he would lie there saying nothing to her. Nothing at all.
Thanks, Chris! I work very hard on small details like that. It’s quite nice that more than one person noticed. Thanks again!
THE DEAD CITY LULLABIES. Originally supposed to be a graphic novel. I’ve started to write parts of it as chapters in a novel now. It’s an alternate-Earth setting, a cyberpunk drama about the slow decline of the Aeres civilization, and an immortal man who will live through the whole thing. In this scene, two outlaws have come upon the relic of a great war in the desert…
‘I feel sorry for it,’ Vega said.
The two of them stood on the precipice of Sol Perme Dante, looking down into its gaping maw. Far below, a mechanical transport lay smashed among the rocks of the ravine floor. Its enormous hind legs were bent at a crazy angle, and its metal skull was cracked wide open. The rocks beneath it were scorched and blackened.
‘Tossed over the edge like an animal, poor thing.’
Alpha clapped a hand on her shoulder.
‘It’s only a machine,’ he said.
Vega saw that its innards were sprawled among the rocks; panels and circuits and burnt transistors, tossed this way and that. Wires splayed from its hull like severed veins. It’d been picked over for sure.
‘It was probably just doing its job. I think it’s sad.’
The morning wind brought tendrils of desert grass to tangle in their boots, stinging their bare shins. The breeze carried the smell of smoke, the vinegar tang of game hide.
Vega caught the scent first, and she unsheathed her knife.
‘You smell that?’
‘Yes, my love. Horses.’
‘Tobacco too. Marauders.’
‘Yes.’
Vega ran to the top of an incline, and crouched low on the lip of a large sandstone boulder. On the horizon came the silhouettes of a dozen horses, their riders carrying tall masts fixed with fluttering yellow flags. One of them was gently beating a drum, rum-ta-tum, rum-ta-tum.
‘Oh man, Dollmakers,’ she whispered.
I like this. Your language is clean and well-executed, and the four paragraphs of description are top-notch: vivid and concise, engaging all five senses. I particularly like ‘vinegar tang’ and ‘rat-ta-tum, rat-ta-tum.’ I wish you would use the same descriptive powers to show us what’s going on inside the characters as well as outside. We’re left trying to deduce their ‘internals’ from the dialogue and a very few actions – hand on shoulder, unsheathing knife.
I think you could probably omit ‘caught the first scent and she’ and just have Vega unsheathing her knife in response to the smell. Also, you probably don’t need ‘You smell that? … Yes, my love’ and just have one of the characters say ‘horses’. Possibly, also split up ‘Oh man’ and ‘Dollmakers’ to show Dollmakers is what she’s observed rather than a reference to her companion.
You say in your blurb that the characters are examining the relic of a great war, but there’s no indication of this in the text. It seems odd that they focus on the fate of a machine rather than the other horrifying consequences of war. In terms of revealing character … I’m not entirely sure what’s being revealed.
This feedback seems to have come out rather negative which in no way expresses how much I enjoyed your piece – sorry! It’s clear to see your skill with language; if you would just use that to expose the character’s thoughts/emotions as expertly as you do the landscape, you could be onto a real winner.
Thank you Trudy for this useful feedback – and indeed for engaging with the piece so thoroughly. It is much appreciated!
I agree that the characters aren’t revealing much about what’s going on inside; taking such a small snippet out of a very sprawling narrative makes it difficult to do this with the tone I’ve chosen for these scenes. Perhaps I can look at ways of giving insight to their trajectory/intentions through the dialogue more effectively…
At this stage, we don’t know whether these machines were acting of their own accord, or were the instruments of war; or how long ago this war was. Or who these two really are. I guess you’re right in asking – why is this thing sad? It’s just a machine…
Anyhow, the very fact that you want to know and learn more about them is gratifying: and I thank you for your kind words and constructive ideas.
You’re welcome, Aidan, glad it helped.
Ah! So, at this stage, the machine’s connection to the war is an abstract thing. That makes more sense. I liked the description of the dead machine – innards, veins – almost human. And given that it moved your character so much (and so unexpectedly) I wanted to see some inkling of an emotion or a thought to give me an insight into her unique internal make-up. Ditto when they were discussing the arrival of the travellers at the end, I could see they were excited, but I didn’t know why. I certainly don’t think you meed to slow down the text with tons of exposition about backstory or growth, just one or two words, sentences, images or whatever to show us what they’re thinking or feelings as they react to your well-described and well-imagined world.
If you have the time, I’d really welcome some feedback to the extract I posted yesterday, entitled Golden Isle (though I forget to include the title until the comments!) Feel free to be as brutal with my piece as I was with yours!
Absolutely – very good points all, Trudy. I’ll bear this in mind as I continue drafting!
I look forward to reading and responding to your piece today.
Hi Aidan. I am a big sci-fi fan and I really get a sense of place here – barren, ravaged, desolate, etc. ‘The machine’ conjures images of a rusting Soviet tank somewhere in the Afghan desert. A stark reminder for future generations, even though they don’t understand what it is or was used for.
For me, the tone hits the mark, and suggests that Vega is reacting with a certain innocence. Yes, war is terrible, and I’m sensing that these two have witnessed human (or Aeres) suffering and brutality to the point she has more compassion for a machine than her fellow ‘Aereans?’. I feel Alpha is the voice of reason, but he doesn’t mock her.
I want to know why they are outlaws when they seem so nice!
I get the impression the war was a high-tech affair that ended badly. Knives, horses – civilisation has suffered for it.
As per Trudy’s comments, perhaps the dialogue needs tidying up to flow better, although for me, the – ‘Oh man, Dollmakers’ – works… I’m thinking they are bad news, right? I’d love to know how this turns out
As others have said, this is a very vividly drawn and detailed world, and I definitely wanted to find out more about it, and the characters. Loved the last line – ‘Dollmakers’ actually sent a shiver up my spine at the thought of what sort of behaviour that name might allude too! Nothing good, I’m pretty sure! 😮
I also really liked the depiction of the wrecked war machine as an animal. That really gives the sense that we’re somewhere in space or time that’s very different. Great stuff!
Those are encouraging words, thank you Jon! Excellent
It’s a tricky balance I think. We want to get a succinct, precise description and not be too flowery or go on for pages and pages. Truth is readers just don’t want lots of description these days – that want something pact that drives forward. Unless it literary fiction of course. I still think there’s room for beautiful writing and will written prose though.
My first Townhouse posting! Manuscript is titled Between the Middle and the Edge of Nowhere. Charlie Haddon and Zandra Marston-Jones are thrown together in a place where people transit between life and death. They have a chance to fix their spirit and get back to life. They have to find the life elements they lost, but evil stalks them. It wants them to stay. Might be a smidgen over 250 . . . sorry Harry!
This is the opening three paragraphs from Chapter 1.
A serene calm. Silence, heavy and impregnable cocooned him. A sensation of floating, like being in the fold of cotton wool as he sank silently into the comforting cradle of eternity. The soothing warmth of death’s gentle hold wrapped around him, calming his fears, reassuring him all will be well. All he had to do was let go of life. It didn’t hurt, not one bit. But it felt strange, like going numb. Light-headed. That kind of described the feeling. Charlie felt a little sick, dizzy, like he had been spinning around, but it soon passed.
Charlie looked at his boozed-up parents, not certain how he got into the lounge from his bedroom. He called out to them, but they took no notice. He stood in front of them, but they didn’t see him. He reached out to touch them, but they felt nothing.
He felt himself being gently pulled away. A wispy cloud floated into the space between him and reality. His vision started to fade. No wind. No light. No sound. A vacuum. He looked at his hands and moved his fingers. He moved his legs and wriggled his toes.
Gradually the scene shifted. Charlie looked around. He was standing in a field. Corn, golden in the sunset grew up to his waist and swayed gently in the warm breeze. It lapped against his legs like gentle waves tap the sides of a boat. In the distance the sun. The huge orange ball started to slide behind the horizon and laid out a fantail of hazy light across the land.
Very detailed description with some nice use of language.
The title of my first novel is ‘Drowning’.
The main character, Sylvia, is unhappily married to Giles. She has been having an affair with Sandy and they are planning a new life together. But her dreams are thwarted by tragedy when Sandy drowns in the sea while trying to save a struggling child.
This excerpt follows his drowning, while Sylvia is trying to continue her day to day life.
——————-
In the weeks after Sandy’s death, Sylvia woke to a battle every day. She struggled to keep her head up, to tread the waters of her life, and to swim for the children who depended absolutely on her ability to remain afloat. That she could only conceive her life in terms of another type of drowning troubled her; instead of distancing herself from the tragedy that had taken her future, or gritting her teeth and concentrating on her children’s happiness, her life swung between deep grief and shallow comfort within a watery theme. And there was no-one to see her struggle or to throw a lifeline.
Now the children were back at school, Sylvia had space to sort the confusion in her head, to ease the fatigue caused by Sandy’s sudden loss. But when a week of this hadn’t improved her appetite, nor provided any relief from the familiar, rumbling queasiness in her gut, she had to face facts. She called the local surgery and made an appointment.
Dr. Black was straightforward in his assessment. ‘From your symptoms, I think it’s entirely likely that you’re pregnant,’ he said. ‘I’ll get your sample tested but I certainly expect that just to confirm the situation. I think you can safely tell your husband.’
Sylvia just stared at him. Tell Giles? The thought of it appalled her. Not until she knew for sure, had worked out whether this could be Sandy’s child. Be happy about the news, she told herself.
Weeping inside, she smiled at the doctor.
I’m interested to know how this turns out.
Thanks Gwyneth – nice to hear that you’d be interested to read on!
Julia, I enjoyed this a lot. I don’t normally read books set in the real world, but I think I would read this. I love the conflicts you have thrown at your poor character: not only the loveless marriage and the dead lover, but the unexpected pregnancy too. It’s compelling. I love the way you reveal the pregnancy – I actually felt a physical jolt when I read those words. Perfectly executed. I feel the piece would benefit from more ‘showing’ and less ‘telling’. I’d love to see her in a scene with her children and the unsympathetic Giles, deeply mourning but unable to show it. The last paragraph felt more immediate to me because you actually took us into her thoughts ‘Tell Giles? … Be happy about the news, she told herself.’ I liked ‘Weeping inside, she smiled at the doctor.’
Thanks Trudy. My tendency is to tell and explain, so I am constantly having to focus on showing (though in the rest of the chapter there is definitely more show of Sylvia’s situation). Actually I think the section in the doctor’s surgery has benefited from the significant chop I had to do in order to meet the 250-word limit, so I’m glad I decided to post something here.
That’s interesting because I was going to comment, but I forgot, on how impressed I was with your pace. To move from the decision to call the doctor, to the doctor’s office, to the news of the pregnancy … all in three sentences. It showed us all we needed to see without slowing the text down unbearably. I also had to do some chopping (I took out two characters!) so it seems Harry’s strict 250 word limit has been of some help to us!
If you have time, I would love to see your feedback on my posting, on Monday. And if you post any more, on Jericho’s text-posting forum, I would love to read it.
is an absolute cracker of a line to end the passage with. And you set up so much future story in so few paragraphs. Very well done.
Thanks Jon, I appreciate your feedback and glad you enjoyed it.
Book title; “Seth Janner.” Seth is a character I particularly like, independent and self-sufficient, he becomes forced into a wider world of new experiences.
Crawling to the edge of the trees, the hunter made no sound, as the dusk deepened his senses became more acute, the darkness was the friend of hunters and predators. Their prey also became more aware of the sounds and smells in their world. The hunter was dressed in whipcord trousers, a shirt and sweater topped by his poacher coat, and his woollen cap. Everything he wore was in muted shades of brown and green. To further blend with his surroundings, he tucked grasses and other vegetation into loops on his clothing. This camouflage broke up his outline, so unless you studied the place he lay, you would only see tuffets of grass and weeds. He could lie unmoving for hours becoming part of the scenery until he struck… to catch his prey.
The unmistakable musky smell of a fox blew towards him on a slight breeze, he knew it was an old dog fox that shared the large badger sett fifty yards away from where he lay. The badgers; fastidious creatures often cleaning their sett of soiled bedding, pushing the vegetation out and down into their latrine below the entrance to their home. The hunter couldn’t understand how such clean animals could share their home with the smelly fox.
The last shafts of sunlight filtered through the branches of the great oak tree that had stood for centuries in the wood, its remaining canopy of leaves turned yellow and gold in the late autumn as the nights lengthened.
Hello. I’m also new to the Townhouse and the business of writing. Below is the beginning of Chapter 2 from a dystopian manuscript I’m working on. The working title is ID-43. In a world where the population has reached critical mass certain individuals who once saved lives are now deemed criminals. The protagonist is a government-sanctioned killer who has closed down a target. In the passage below, I’m trying to explore the protagonist’s ruthless and pragmatic character as well as a little backstory. All feedback is most welcome. Like I said, I’m new to this and need a guiding hand. Cheers!
I’m standing in the living room of a quaint, honeyed limestone cottage belonging to a Mr. Swanley. It’s a sleepy little house tucked away in the Cotswolds and in need of some TLC to be honest. The exposed wooden beams undulate and twist across the ceiling like the oak ribs of a huge fossil, a stark contrast to the brilliant-white plaster between them. The room is cosy and littered with ornaments and crochet blankets that add to that heavy, stale air you only ever encounter in the presence of old age — a heady soup of body odour, mothballs and roast dinners.
Swanley is old. Ninety-eight to be precise.
Or at least, he was.
His real name was Professor Vincent James Fitzgerald Cleething. A brilliant Geneticist. That’s why I’m astride his dead body, slowly unscrewing the silencer from my pistol in a Takamatsu Energy Corp boiler suit. He’s on my list and it’s taken the best part of a month to track him down.
They hide well, those of a higher intellect. They’re good at it. But I’m good too. Good at finding them.
Ultimately, they can’t help it you see. They are wired differently. After months or even years in hiding, their boredom boils over and they burst open like an academic hand grenade, unleashing their talent. A unique form of bravado-laced psychopathy — the god complex — and it shows up like cancer on an x-ray. Ironically, they use their intellect without thinking, and in small communities like this charming Wisteria-drenched parish, it inevitably attracts attention. My attention. Then all I must do is run a biometric recognition check and bingo — Hello professor.
This is cool. Very Chandler-esque. I’ve always liked “the diary-of” sort of first-person narrative, and your tone effectively captures the hunter’s matchstick-chewing nonchalance.
There’s only one passage that sticks out to me – and that’s where he’s describing the room in the first paragraph. I’m not sure our protagonist (though we don’t know him like you do of course) would use descriptions like:
undulate and twist
Stark contrast
brilliant-white plaster
I kind of feel like the only things he’d care to describe are the things which tell us something about the occupant. “Heavy, stale air” is great. Also the ornaments and crochet blankets are important. Not so much the ceiling though.
I’d trim that opening paragraph down to the bare essentials – just plain observations. From then on, the rest of it reads beautifully!
Clean and quick. I like it.
Hope my feedback is of use to you 🙂
Cheers,
A
Thanks Aidan, much appreciated. I think you’re right. Maybe a touch ‘flowery’ for my killer. Great feedback and well noted
Tedda, I think this is excellent, particularly for someone who describes themselves as ‘new to writing’. I loved the ‘punch’ moment when you revealed our character is actually a killer. I think you weighted the tension up to that moment perfectly. Though I take on board Aidan’s point that the first para may be a little long (pos ditch the 3rd sentence?), I actually liked the contrast between the amiable, nonchalant observations (‘in need of some TLC to be honest’), and the stark reality that he’s just killed this home’s owner! I thought that was very effective and skilful. In terms of revealing character, it was spot on because although it’s probably true that most hired killers wouldn’t be interested in the decor of their victim’s houses, this one is, which simply raises my curiosity about him and makes him more three dimensional. This impression is somewhat reversed in the last paragraph where the character appears to reveal a dislike of his victim. Telling phrases such as: ‘hand grenade’ ‘bravado-laced’ ‘god complex’ ‘cancer’ and the sarcasm of ‘charming Wisteria-drenched parish’. Would he express such value-laden sentiments if he is merely a detached professional doing a necessary job – which I think is what you’re aiming for? You can still express his pride in his own expertise without having him express this contempt for the dead man.
One other thought: you say this is the second chapter, but it seems to make a perfect first chapter to me. Are you sure your first chapter is necessary (unless it deals with another character)?
Thank you, Trudy, this means a lot to me. I’m pleased it comes across the way I wanted it to. And I agree with you both. That 3rd sentence is cut!
Is he merely a detached killer? Detached to a point – He is complex, torn between a sense of duty and the illogical lunacy of his work – essentially killing off rogue medical professionals to prevent them from saving millions. He doesn’t dislike Cleething, but feels it’s Cleething’s fault that he has had to kill him. If only he’d towed the line sort of thing. There’s personal baggage too that allows him to do what he does best and be ‘okay’ with it. This is the character arc I’m working on, from heartless killer with tragedy in his locker to compassionate saviour who sees the light… I think.
I’ve toyed with this as the first chapter but have opted for a sub-700-word blunt/dark/harrowing description of his first assassination instead. I like the way it asks a whole bunch of questions and then in this second chapter I try to answer them, so we know who he is and what’s going on.
Thank you again, this is really helping
Tedda
Thanks, Tedda. You really have come up with a fascinating and unique premise here. Killing worthy individuals to save the world – that really is the type of complex moral dilemma to torture a long-suffering protagonist. Didn’t Harry do a blogpost on this recently – taking an aspect of the real world – overpopulation – and then extrapolating it to an extreme – the government hiring people to kill medical professionals who are illegally saving lives. It’s terrific! I can almost see the film, already! I must admit, I had missed the detail that Cleething’s actions were forbidden. I thought the government was simply killing off anyone with the potential to save lives. I thought the protagonist’s subdued anger in the last para was due to an actual dislike, or contempt, for Cleething. I’m not sure if there’s any way you could rework the wording to convey the exact emotions you describe – it’s your fault, if only you’d toed the line. Or possibly I’m just being too picky and it’ll all work itself out as the book progresses!
You know when a really good book or film gets you thinking long after you’ve finished watching or reading? Well, your post has got me doing just that… and I’ve only read an extract! Well done, you. (Please mention me in the thank you’s when your book gets published!)
Incidentally, if you get the time, I’d really welcome some feedback on my extract posted on Monday.
Thanks Trudy, I’m blown away. I will be taking your comments on board, checking against the chapter as a whole.
I must have missed Harry’s blog on that one, i’ll dig it out!
IF I ever get anything published (even if it’s a one liner complaining about potholes in my local newspaper) I’ll be sure to mention you regardless… I’ve been brushing up on the business and i’m under no illusion its probably the hardest thing to break into. Still, i’ll give it my best shot. You are spurring me on!
I will read your post now
I agree with Trudy’s comments – really interesting premise. And I’m also interested in what you say about the short, blunt description of an assassination as your first chapter, and all the questions that raises for the reader. I’m doing something similar in my second book (completely different genre to yours) and I’m finding it an exciting challenge.
Thanks Julia, much appreciated. Yes, i found Chapter 1 a challenge to keep the word count down and still convey a sense of a man going about his business with a detached coolness. I don’t even know if I’ve succeeded! I enjoyed it though. I’m a big fan of Chandler, Cormac McCarthy and recently Terry Hayes – all get to the point with little fluff
Great ‘noir’ feel to the first person narration, as others have said. And a very original and provocative concept too! I’d certainly want to read more aabout your protagonist and his world.
For new-to-writing, this is definitely well-written. It captures a nice macabre character. And I like the premise that those who saved lives are considered criminals, that there are government-sanctioned killers.
Where the story idea breaks down for me is on the implications therof: scientists wouldn’t be the first on the hit list, the unemployed would be, or unsanctioned mothers; and a month to track down a single target is a waste of time, especially one who’s 98 and stands a good chance of dying of natural causes in that time.
Hi Rick. Many thanks for taking the time to read and for the feedback. I really appreciate it. Glad it raised questions for you.
Scientists are not first on the list but one of many lists. My protagonist specialises in the medical profession, there are many others like him that deal with a multitude of other key human factors. I’ve covered this, and Cleething’s age, in the rest of the Chapter.
OK, here is my piece. Novel title is “Dragon Under Glass” a space opera/fantasy fusion action story with a heroine, escaped slave who has had her memory wiped (mostly) by a catastrophic event and must survive the strange world she has fallen into. For readers, my question is how to make the strongest possible opening hook/image. This submission is the first 250 words of the book:
Tell me the key to House Ashastra’s weapons and I will spare you more pain.
She refused. Thunder,lightning,pain.
Yulia opened her eyes, gasped, a solitary memory blanking out everything else, even her identity, though her name remained shining like a cryptogram in the dark. Mourning, an escaped slave brought to judgment and failure too great to bear.
She lay on a stone floor and wore a tight fitting skirt and tunic, made of a sheened black fabric she felt she should recognize but didn’t. Alarmed, she lept up, expecting to be eaten but unable to remember why it should be so. She had just passed her eighteenth birthday and should be with companions, not here alone. She remembered only one name besides her own. Crispus. A youth she had loved, until something maimed him, an enemy.
What’s wrong with me? She clutched her head. The air damp. The walls were stone, with low vaulted arches receding four ways into shadow.
In the center of the room waited a stone box, like a sarcophagus, but too large for a man. She approached, leather clad boots almost silent. Something dangled from the woven fabric belt at her waist. A foot long club with an oval head, and a grip shaped to receive a hand. It seemed she should remember what it was for, but that was alien to her too. Torches on the pillars gave a wavering orange glow, just enough light to see by.
Hello all – “Tellyland Goes North” is a romantic comedy set in the hectic world of live television. Here, beleaguered heroine Maggie tackles the school run, while having to deal with calls from her mam with a washer on the blink and boss Tamsin who’s in a spin over celebrity guests.
——————
“Tell me why I’m looking at Todd Anthony on The Early Show set?” an icy voice demanded. “He’s actually in their studio! Sitting on their sofa..”
“Tamsin, I’m sorry .…”
“Margo, I’m relying on you to deliver the best guests on OUR show. How could you let this happen?”
By now the self-assigned parking attendant was next to the car and shouting her objections through the passenger window. Maggie held up her hand, signalling she’d willingly give her attention once she was off the phone.
“I tried, but his agent had already sewn up a deal and …”
“Who wrote this next script?” Tamsin shrieked at someone her end. “JeSUS….” And then she was gone. On the other line, mam was still bemoaning her tsunami stricken kitchen and oblivious to any interruption.
“I was already feeling a bit low. That cow next door had a right go, just cos I was feeding the pigeons. I might let her tyres down later…”
“Mam, what have I told you…”
“Can’t hear you love. Anyway, could you call the plumber? No point me ringing, I can’t tell what anyone’s saying on the phone these days…”
“I’ll call as soon as I get to the office, don’t worry…” Maggie assured her.
“What was that?”
“I SAID I’LL CALL WHEN I GET TO THE OFFICE!” Maggie yelled so loudly her ears were ringing.
“Can you not call them when you get to the office?” mam demanded impatiently.
“YES! THAT’S WHAT…”
“Can’t hear you love. Anyway, I’m off to watch Eggheads on catch- up…”
Great dialogue. And very funny. 😁
Thank you Jon! That’s really encouraging ☺️